


Riverman, Riverman

by Shampain



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/M, M/M, Thorin Oakenshield - mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He led Bard deep into the forest, along those thin and tremulous paths. He glowed in the darkness, hair white like the moon and his robe swirling, a pattern of trembling autumn leaves masked in gleaming spider's silk. The woods seemed to greet him as they passed through; while the branches caught at Bard's hair, snagged his clothing, the trees breathed in a soft, hushed gasp, pulled back to let the King pass.<br/>-<br/>Bard attends a mad feast of the elves, heralding the end of days. Dark AU, with a little splash of science fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riverman, Riverman

**Author's Note:**

> In the midst of writing my purely-for-fun fanfic Modern Love, I had to get a little of the darkness out of my system. Sometime last night I was thinking about the description of Mirkwood from the book, which is so gloomy and dark, and the strange and mysterious parties Thranduil would have with his folk. Then I added cyborg spiders, because why the Hell not, right? Yes, I knew you'd see it my way.

The trees gasp and wheeze in the darkness. Out in their tangle of branches the spiders swarmed, their legs clicking and hissing with rust, pointed ends jabbing into the undergrowth and scarring the bark. They spun their webs that glinted in the moonlight, razor sharp and unbreakable.

The elves feared nothing. Like a swarm of bats they would explode out of the shadows, knives and darts and arrows tipped in poison. They smeared coal-coloured war paint over their sharp cheekbones but their eyes still burned, bright in the darkness. They cleared the spiders out, beat them back away from the elven places in the forests. The clearings where the water was still sweet and cold, the grass soft and thick; these were the places their King valued most.

She was hidden amidst a cluster of branches, motionless. A silent sentinel. Bard caught her eye, though. She had noticed him the moment he had stepped foot on the shore.

“Riverman,” she greeted. She did not leap down to join him but stepped off the branch and suddenly she was there. Her hair burst like fire and the paint had sunk into the lines of her face. “Are you here for the feast?”

“The King has requested me.”

“Always, always. And where is the wine?”

“It arrived before me. Did you not notice? Did something finally slip past you, Tauriel?”

And Tauriel smiled a cruel smile, and stepped back, melting into the shadows. “All that slips by me,” she replied, her voice already fading, as if the woods were absorbing her even as she spoke, “is the favour you hold over the King.”

The way was clear. He walked down the path, into the darkness lit only by gloomy patches of starlight. These were roads only the favoured knew; these were roads that only saw the tread of those who walked by the King's consent.

The sound of the party met his ears long before he saw the fires, glowing in green and gold and orange and red, hot and dangerous. The fluid that pumped through the spiders' bodies made for good fuel, and every splash resulted in a burst of vicious colour dancing skyward.

The Elven King sat at the head of the table, his son at his side. Wine flowed as freely as blood. Hair gleaming like starlight and wearing a crown of metal shards, the Elven King leaned towards his son and whispered something dark and chilling into his pointed ear.

“Where is Tauriel?” the Prince asked, once Bard came into view. The other elves whirled about the clearing in a mad dance, but royalty stood still.

“She maintains her watch along the river,” Bard replied.

“She wishes to pursue the spiders beyond our borders,” the Prince said with a laugh, lifting up a bowl of wine, so dark it was nearly black. “She is bloodthirsty, father.”

“See to it you keep that in check,” said the Elven King, rising from his seat. He beckoned Bard with a bejewelled hand, and silently he fell in step behind him.

He led Bard deep into the forest, along those thin and tremulous paths. He glowed in the darkness, hair white like the moon and his robe swirling, a pattern of trembling autumn leaves masked in gleaming spider's silk. The woods seemed to greet him as they passed through; while the branches caught at Bard's hair, snagged his clothing, the trees breathed in a soft, hushed gasp, pulled back to let the King pass.

“How goes the lake, Riverman?” the Elven King asked.

“It boils with sulpur,” he answered.

“Yes, as I feared.”

The track took them up a lonely hill, the trees falling away to long and fluttering grass. The King stood at the top, outline framed like a white stag, and he turned to look over his shoulder at Bard. “The signs come forth, like rapids over stone. Soon, we will all burn.”

“What causes this?”

“The blind greed of a mad King who bears no crown,” he said, softly. He spoke as if he had been struck, and the words dripped like blood from his lips. “He will take it if he can, though he may only wear it in the moments before the maelstrom takes us all.”

“Will we die?”

“I will remain,” the Elven King sighed, holding out his hand again, those rings gleaming white-hot on his fingers, coals from deep underground. “That is my punishment. But you, my dear Riverman. You will succumb to the fire, as will your friends, your neighbours, your enemies and your children.”

Bard reached forward and took the Elven King's hand, which was smooth and dry and hot. He pulled him close, roughly, so roughly the deadly crown slipped and a fleck of blood appeared on that high and pure cheekbone.

Their kiss was wild and desperate. Bard felt the pull of his own destiny. His hands were burning as if he held a weapon, newly forged; but in fact it was the Elven King's shoulders he gripped, fingernails ripping the delicate lace of his robe.

“No,” he hissed against the King's lips. “You're wrong. I was born on the water, and I will die in it. There is no fire I cannot quench.”

“Show me,” demanded the Elven King.

Deep in the forest, the Prince pursued Tauriel, followed her hair which gleamed like coals, her knives which were clotted with spider ichor. “There is only the hunt!” she cried, wild and reckless. “That is all there is, my Prince! The hunter and the prey! What shall we be? What say you?”

“Tauriel! O Tauriel, your heart is full of Death!”

“Yes, my heart is full!” Tauriel screamed to the stars. “Soon the sky will fill with flame! Soon the moon will devour the sun!” He came upon her, standing in the shadows, perched atop a branch like a raven, waiting, waiting. When he stood before her she kissed him and he could not think, could not breathe. She tasted the wine and the fear on his lips.

“We are all prey,” he told her.

“Then let us run,” she sang.

The forest trembled and the Prince and his beloved ran neck in neck, deep into the woods, slipping through spider's nests and dancing over the poisoned water. The Riverman brushed aside the Elven King's silken hair and pressed an icy kiss between his shoulders, and the Elven King breathed in the scent of the wet, chill grass.

Soon the Mountain King would return. Soon, all would be blood, and fire, and smoke, and ghosts.


End file.
